Althea’s reflection rippled across the metallic wall before her as she strode into the heart of the city known only as Pulse. Her breath, shallow yet measured, held a cadence that matched the distant hum of machinery echoing from every building—machines that had long outlived their creators, their purpose forgotten, just like her.
She glanced down at her gloved hand wrapped tightly around the handle of her sword, a sleek, obsidian blade with thin white lines weaving across the hilt, veins threading through its base like an ancient scripture. Its weight was a reminder; something grounded her in this reality, even when the rest of the world constantly drifted, a forgotten space between memories.
Althea’s presence itself was an anomaly.
Her short white hair contrasted sharply against the inky blackness of the bodysuit that clung to every curve of her lithe, warrior form, a second skin. The bodysuit itself shimmered under the glow of neon signs that flickered in and out above her, highlighting the pronounced zipper that ran down her chest and stopped just short of her midsection. It hugged close, revealing the taut musculature beneath the sleek fabric, her body crafted for both agility and precision. She was not just built for battle; she existed for it. Black thigh-high stockings framed the powerful length of her legs, melding into high boots designed for both combat and speed.
A battle-angel descended into this forsaken civil war.
Her fingers brushed against the cold steel of her sword as she adjusted her black headband, a mark of her station, of her purpose. Her beauty was undeniable, and yet, it was stark, edged with the quiet stillness of a machine. Her androgynous features, accented by her sharp jawline and the silver flashes in her cyan eyes, only added to that unfeeling aura.
Pulse was not a place for the weak. And Althea—despite her delicate feminine appearance—was anything but weak.
As she moved deeper into the labyrinth of streets and alleys where neon battled against the darkness for dominance, she heard the familiar low rumble of approaching bots. These were not like her. They were crude imitations of warriors from a bygone era, born from an ancient war that no one remembered clearly. They were sentries now, hollow echoes patrolling the silent ruins of a planet long abandoned by life.
But Althea *remembered*. She had seen glimpses of that war, though they fluttered in and out of her mind like moths drawn to the dying flames of memory. It was her kind that fought in those battles, wielding blades forged for kings and queens long forgotten, galaxies away. Now she was here, half-human, half-machine, haunted by a past she didn’t completely understand, driven by a command she no longer received.
As the first sentinel came into view, she stopped for a breath, body tensed. That one moment of stillness made it clear—she was in full control. Waiting. Anticipating.
The bot’s looming figure crashed through the silence, a mechanical growl from deep within its core cut into the air, but before it could react, Althea’s boots were in motion, moving so fluidly that even gravity seemed slow to catch up with her.
Her sword flew from its sheath, and she spun in a tight, graceful arc. The air hummed with the high-pitched whirr of the motion as the blade severed effortlessly through the automaton’s hulking form. Sparks erupted in a shower of orange and gold before the robot collapsed into a heap of twisted metal.
Althea paused, the immediate threat passed. She lowered her sword, the weapon gleaming with reflected light from the city, enough to reveal her reflection as she looked upon its deadly edge. There was no blood. No scream of the fallen.
She fought in silence—just as she had been born into it.
And then, out of the periphery of her vision, came a figure. Tall, cloaked in shadow but undeniably organic. A man, his face hooded in dark fabric that fluttered with the wind. His eyes, burning with ancient knowledge and bitter intent, locked onto her.
They called him Rook.
“You’re one of them,” he rasped, his voice metallic, shaped by cybernetic enhancements but still cracked around the edges like an old radio trying to pick up a lost frequency. He gestured to the sword in her hand, his own gloved fingers brushing the hilt of an equally ancient weapon slung across his back.
Althea stared at him, for only seconds, but in that brief moment, memories crashed over her mind—faces of her fallen comrades, their hopeful smiles before combat, their cries as one by one they fell defending things they had forgotten to care about.
She narrowed her eyes. Rook didn’t move.
“You were left behind,” he stated, voice heavy with something that might have been empathy, but it was something unfamiliar to Althea. The kind of empathy that machines aren’t predisposed to understand, let alone feel. But perhaps there was a truth in his words, buried underneath the battles she could no longer tally.
Her grip tightened on her blade, jaw tense. Left behind.
Without warning, she lunged. The sword’s motion cut through the air with seamless grace, much like her own body as she danced in combat, her boots landing two decisive strikes with each step, her body shifting angles to exploit his weaknesses.
But he was prepared. His sword blocked hers just as swiftly, the clang of their blades ringing through the narrow alley. Sparks flew, but neither one faltered. His strength pushed her back momentarily—a rare feat—but she recovered before her booted feet touched the ground, reversing the grip with pinpoint precision and thrusting forward once more.
They fought in silence for what felt like hours, until finally, in a defiant twist, Rook’s blade shattered against hers.
He collapsed to his knees, panting, his humanity evident in the way he struggled for breath, while Althea stood over him, her sword gleaming faintly as she raised it.
But she hesitated.
Memories returned once more, bleeding into her consciousness like water being poured into sand.
“Who am I?” Her voice, disused but still strong, cracked through the tension.
Rook chuckled bitterly, looking up at her with a mixture of surprise and defeat. “Perhaps you were more human than we gave you credit for.”
Her hand remained steady on her sword, though her mind was anything but. Another flicker of light, a flood of memory. The war. The purpose given to her long ago. The commanders. The lies…
Clarity struck like lightning.
Perhaps she was something more now. Something undefined, wavering between being a weapon and an individual with her own will.
With a swift, silent decision, Althea resheathed her blade and turned from the crumpled form of Rook. Perhaps she would walk these streets forever, a ghost among the steel. Or perhaps, she might find a path that neither human nor machine had ever dared to tread.
But for now, she disappeared back into the neon haze—her black bodysuit gleaming faintly, her sword still a silent promise.
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